


Son of the Goblin(s)

by theOestofOCs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: #TheVillainIsSociety, #VoldemortIsASymptom, All the OCs are goblins, Brotherhood of Goblins, Gen, Harry Potter was Raised by Goblins, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slytherin!Harry, also I'm a sucker for stories where Harry has a half-decent home life, because, real talk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2019-11-13 07:53:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18027749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theOestofOCs/pseuds/theOestofOCs
Summary: On the evening the Wizarding World celebrates the death of its great oppressor, one member of the Brotherhood of Goblins (a group for the promotion of nonWizard rights) is walking down an unremarkable street, pondering the injustice of his life.That unremarkable street was Privet Drive.Hodrod the Horny-Handed watches as Dumbledore places Harry on the porch of a careless home with nothing more than a letter and a blanket to his name.Everything changes.





	1. Abandoned

Hodrod the Horny-Handed ( _Hodrod Hkelreg duk Hrög_ in his own tongue, a name no human had ever bothered to pronounce) watched from the shadows as the half-giant swung his leg over the motorcycle, still sobbing as he took off into the sky. The stern woman transformed back into a cat, and Dumbledore—Dumbledore, whom they had once trusted to stand up for the goblins, who was now far too busy fighting terrorists of his own society’s making to fulfill the promises he had so long deferred—Dumbledore turned away from the infant on the doorstep, only pausing to whisper a useless wish of luck to the child whose parents were dead. Then he, too, was gone.

Hodrod looked consideringly at the infant, who had only a blanket and a warming charm to fend off the dangers of the autumn night, and who was still fast asleep, no doubt under some Wizard spell to make sure he stayed silent. _Harry Potter,_ he thought. _The Boy Who Lived._ He crept closer, slipping out from the shadows he had wrapped around himself to fend off prying Wizard eyes. “Did you hear what they said, little Harry?” he rasped quietly, stroking one tiny fist with a gnarled finger until it opened to grab the goblin’s hand. “You’ll be famous…every Wizard child will know your name, the boy who defeated the Dark Lord.”

He paused, gazing at the child. Harry was starting to stir, gripping Hodrod’s finger more tightly and bringing a foot up to kick feebly into the air. “I wonder what they’d give to keep you safe?” Hodrod mused. As Harry began to wake in earnest, screwing up his face to cry even before he opened his eyes, Hodrod picked him up, blankets and letter and all. “Well, I say, let’s find out,” he whispered to the child.

With a swish of shadow, Harry’s beginning wail was cut off. The streetlights seemed to dim for an instant, but then glowed as bright as ever they did over the street of Privet Drive, and there was no sign that anyone _unusual_ had ever been there at all. No sign of Wizards or Goblins or newly orphaned children abandoned on doorsteps; Petunia Dursley would open the door to put out the milk bottles the next morning, never knowing anything was amiss. Weeks later, Mrs. Figg would move in to number six, Privet Drive, and weeks after that she would contact Albus Dumbledore to report that she hadn’t seen Harry Potter at all since she had arrived. Aurors would come, first one or two in disguise, then droves of them invading the Dursleys’ house and scouring the neighbourhood before obliviating anyone who observed them, all to no avail.

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had vanished into the night.


	2. Ours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hodrod's friends are Not Amused.

Hodrod returned to his home city at the heart of [Grbpelldikuun,](/) where the goblins had been forced to relocate not long after the Saxons invaded Breton all those centuries ago. He loved his home, he truly did, and they had built a culture all their own on the ruins of their ancient way of life, but as beautiful as the palaces were that sprouted out of the stone walls, Hodrod still hated the fact that a rocky ceiling shrouded his people from the eyes of the Wizards and their kin. It was time for change. That was why he’d joined the “Brotherhood of Goblins” in the first place (actually called _Kripgrubkh duk Grbpell,_ which would be better translated “Fellowship with Goblinkind,” but these humans and their strange belief in masculine superiority made the leaders decide to cheat a little when they translated it officially); he’d hoped Dumbledore would be the human liasion that turned the tide of the struggle for equality, but he should’ve known better. They had to take the offensive, stop counting on outsiders to save them, and give the Wizards a taste of what it meant to have things taken away.

As soon as he got home, he called a meeting. Bodrig, Enkrig, Ragnok, and Nagnik all arrived in short order and assembled into a loose circle in the antechamber of his house, as was their custom. When they heard what he had to say, though, the other goblins of the Brotherhood were less than impressed with Hodrod’s ingenuity.

“You _what_?” shouted Bodrig. Their fearless leader glared at Hodrod, baring his teeth. “What could possibly have possessed you, Hodrod?” Bodrig took a deep breath, and when he exhaled his shoulders slumped forward. He pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand. “Why in the Three Kingdoms would you think it wise to kidnap the boy hero of Wizardkind on the very night their Great War ended?”

Hodrod shrugged, unrepentant. To his surprise, Ragnok the Pigeon-Toed spoke up in his defense. Usually the bookworm kept more or less to himself at these meetings, off in his own world of idealism and fancy words, but— _here we go,_ Hodrod thought; apparently, it was time for the bimonthly Ragnok Rant.

 _“Great War,”_ Ragnok scoffed. “A few hundred wizards squabbling amongst themselves, Bodrig, really? When not so long ago their ‘muggle’ neighbours were dying by the millions and not one wand-bearer could be bothered to raise a hand in aid, or remember their plight! When _we_ have been fighting for nearly a hundred years simply to be _seen,_ and the one wizard who claimed to listen dropped our cause entirely for the sake of a single murderer! Frankly, I’m surprised they think this child a _hero_ at all, for stopping the man who carried their prejudice to its logical conclusion—”

“Ragnok!” Bodrig snapped. The scholar merely adjusted his gold-rimmed goggles and glared back, opening his mouth to continue, because very few things could hold Ragnok back from a good monologue when the mood struck him. Fortunately, Enkrig spoke before he could.

“Ragnok. Hodrod,” she said firmly. It was a shame wizards thought so little of women, Hodrod thought absently, because if Goblin females could travel safely among wand-bearers Enkrig would _make_ the world listen, far more effectively than Bodrig or Ragnok (let alone Hodrod)’s efforts could. “Nothing can justify the wizards’ treatment of our kind, or of other nonWizard persons. But that certainly does _not_ justify wrongs done to the wizards, and especially does not excuse kidnapping a child, who has done nothing good or evil of his own will, and who has nevertheless suffered great loss.”

She looked at Ragnok, who hunched his shoulders in anticipation. “Ragnok, you should be ashamed to insinuate that the suffering of innocent wizards is any less awful than the suffering of goblins, or of amagical humans. Even wrongdoers deserve justice, not cruelty.” She turned to Hodrod. “As for you, Hodrod, you will return this babe to his people at once, and then you will answer for the crime you have committed.”

Hodrod frowned, staring at the ground. He glanced up towards the alcove beside the main entrance to the house, where the Boy Who Lived was curled in a Goblin cradle and, last Hodrod checked, still sleepily trying to suck on his toes. “Enkrig…”

“Speak,” she replied crisply. He met her eyes, his odd, bulgy green ones gazing steadily into her dark face. Even he would usually draw the line at harming civilians, let alone children, but this time—well, he wasn’t so sure it was _him_ who posed a threat to the babe.

“For a child they credit with saving their world, it seemed to me they valued him precious little,” Hodrod stated quietly, and though solemnity was anything but natural to him, he was solemn now. “If I hadn’t happened to sense an animagus hovering in the area, Albus Dumbledore would have left him on a doorstep with no guard and no assurance of welcome, unprotected, at the mercy of any creature that happened by. This letter,” he drew it from his vest pocket, “was the only explanation he planned to provide for his relatives. The woman’s sister died today, did you know that? And Albus would have told her the news in a letter, tucked in next to her orphaned nephew, whom she was expected to raise alongside her own son. I heard the animagus warn Albus that the family might not be suitable, and he brushed her off, but I could smell the pent-up anger in that house from the street. He seemed to think it best for the child to be cut off from his culture, from his people, and placed in a household that might well hate him for what he is and how he came to join them, and I could make no sense of his explanations for any of it. Enkrig, I will return the child if you truly think it best for him, but I did not take him out of a desire for vengeance, or not only so. I fear for his safety in the human world, and I would not… I would not see another child so harmed.”

There was silence for a moment in the conference room. A few of those gathered had known Hodrod in childhood (seen the bruises and the tear-bright eyes), and everyone knew he never mentioned his parents, despite the Goblins’ emphasis on close-knit families.

“What would you have us do?” Enkrig asked gently. “I agree,” she added, “We cannot in good conscience return the boy to a situation like the one you describe, but kidnapping is not the solution.”

Nagnik interrupted before anyone else could get a word out, her eyes gleaming. “Well, Enkrig, let’s pause for a moment. Who said anything about kidnapping?” Hodrod stared at his fiancée bemusedly. She winked slyly at him, folding one pale green arm against her hip and prowling forward into the circle. She took Hodrod’s hand for a moment, squeezing it sympathetically, and continued, “It sounds to me like Hodrod found an abandoned child and, out of the kindness of his heart, took him home before he could get hurt. And what does Goblin Law say about the adoption of foundlings?”

Slowly, Hodrod started to grin. “Why, Nagnik, I do believe it states that the first person or persons to claim a foundling have the same rights and responsibilities of parenthood as a biological progenitor, and they must either legally forfeit such status or else be demonstrated incompetent before said foundling can be removed from their care.”

“Why do you know that?” muttered Ragnok, but he nodded when Enkrig glanced at him for confirmation. Hodrod pocketed the slip of paper Nagnik had passed him with Section 92b of the penal code written on it, smiling and shrugging in response to Ragnok’s query.

“Wait,” Bodrig said, wrinkling his brow. “Are you seriously suggesting we allow _Hodrod_ to adopt the Wizard hero of the century? Why would that seem like a good idea to any of you?”

To everyone’s surprise, Enkrig smiled. “Well, it may be unorthodox, but it would appear we have little choice. The law is clear, after all. The child was abandoned, and Hodrod found him.” She glanced towards the little room where the baby lay. “But I will not condone using this child as a weapon of war. If he is to live among us, he will be raised like any goblin kit, not the wizards’ Boy Who Lived,” she glared at Hodrod, who nodded furiously, then stared down the other members of the Brotherhood until they bent their heads in acknowledgement. “It may be that, in time, by giving him the best chance at life we can, he will take up an interest in our cause, but regardless, we will treat him with nothing less than the love and respect every child deserves.”

The Brotherhood stayed for hours after Enkrig's decision, arranging and planning and adjusting to the impromptu (and probably ill-advised) addition now sleeping in the next room. In the small hours of the morning, as his guests filed tiredly out the door, Nagnik sidled up to Hodrod and took his hand, this time in seriousness. He glanced at her, and she smiled back, a fierce and terrifying look. “They didn’t deserve him,” she whispered coldly. “Now he’s ours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do y’all think so far? I always feel skeevy about fics (and canons; honestly, it’s mostly canons) (looking at you, Batman) where parent-figures kidnap/neglect/endanger their charges, and it’s like “They Have The Best Of Intentions So Don’t Even Worry About It” but I definitely am worrying. So, I tried to avoid that here with all the legal stuff (because it’s in the books that goblins have a distinct cultural-legal code which they expect wizards to follow, like how they expect goblin-made works to be returned upon the owner's death, and then the wizards are like “bwuh but our culture is superior” and it’s all very imperialist but anyways: point is they're following a legit code here), and for good measure by adding the “yo we aren’t kidnapping him for his political significance” dialogue. Let me know in the comments if it works!


	3. Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Have another chapter! This story is shaping up to go in a different, longer, more convoluted direction than I had originally thought, so I'm not 100% sure about the 10 chapter marker right now. One way or another, though, I'll be aiming to get one chapter up per week--more often if the Muse takes me, less if exams do--so stay tuned for the next installment of the Goblin Saga!

**_Ten years later_ ******

****  
****  


Harry was in the middle of yet another lesson with Ragnok perfecting his English accent.

Like the other goblin children, his first language was _Grbpelldikkuk_ , but—since he was, technically, a wizard child, and would most likely be receiving a letter inviting him to study at Hogwarts sometime this year—he’d been learning English for nearly as long as he could remember, and was as good as Ragnok at this point. 

The lessons were dead boring, and Harry much preferred learning Goblin magic with his mother, Nagnik, or even the history and politics classes (which Ragnok worked into nearly every lesson and conversation, anyways). 

Ragnok was nearly impossible to dissuade when he got an idea into his head, though, so there Harry sat, dully repeating “The Wizarding War was a regular wreck” to practice his “r”s, while Ragnok tried and failed to find fault with his pronunciation.

“Make sure you’re keeping ‘wizard’ and ‘war’ nice and soft, Harry,” Ragnok was saying, “much like the real Wizarding War, which was handled much too feebly by Wizard authorities—” when Hodrod burst into the makeshift classroom, panting.

Harry perked up at the interruption, but his eyes went wide as he took in the letter Hodrod was holding up with one hand, the other braced against his knee as he tried to catch his breath. The envelope he clutched was a lavish-looking parchment, on which bright green letters spelled out, in exquisite calligraphy:

_Mr. H. Potter_  
_Somewhere Beneath Gringotts,_  
_100, Diagon Alley,_  
_London_

“Is that…” Ragnok gasped, adjusting his goggles. Hodrod just nodded, still panting through his half-manic grin. 

It was possible he’d sprinted the entire distance between the bank and Ragnok’s house, although it would’ve been faster and, at that point, less draining just to teleport (“wandless apparition,” Harry reminded himself, since he was going to have to practice using Wizard terminology an awful lot from now on). But then, that was Hodrod all over; _why take the easy way when you can be interesting?_ was his motto, always delivered with the same slightly unbalanced-looking smirk.

Harry focussed on the letter, cocking his head. “Well, now we know they can’t pinpoint my location when I’m in _Grbpelldikuun_ ,” he noted, pleased.

More relevantly, and with a great deal more agitation, Ragnok exclaimed, “What are we waiting for? We have to call a meeting!”

* * *

Half an hour later, the Brotherhood had once again assembled. Hodrod looked around, allowing himself 74 seconds to reminisce. After all, ten years ago had been the meeting that changed his life, when he’d adopted Harry, who had grown up to be not only adorable but intensely terrifying. Hodrod was so proud.

Things had changed over the years, of course; for one, Enkrig’s wife had joined the Brotherhood, and Prakak’s earnest sweetness provided a much-appreciated counterbalance to the other’s pragmatic brilliance. 

Enkrig was, of course, an awe-inspiring leader, and she had their everlasting respect, but there was always the niggling feeling that if you got too far on her bad side, she would willingly tear everything you held dear to shreds with a few choice words. 

Prakak helped mitigate this tendency a smidge. 

Of course, there were other differences—Harry was now old enough to walk and talk and make helpful contributions to the meeting, Hodrod was officially Nagnik’s husband, the Brotherhood met in Ragnok’s living room rather than Hodrod’s entryway—but Hodrod was firmly of the opinion that none of them really mattered. The main difference between this meeting and the auspicious one of Harry’s finding was that, for this one, a child’s life and future no longer hung in the balance. 

Oh, Hodrod was fairly sure the fate of the Wizarding World hinged on whether or not Harry decided to go to Hogwarts, but either way, _Harry_ would be fine, so as far as Hodrod was concerned, this meeting was a zero-stress occasion.

Enkrig cleared her throat, catching their attention. “I’m sure you all know what prompted this emergency gathering—”

“Harry’s going to infiltrate the wizards and force them to acknowledge their manifold injustices!” Ragnok squealed, brandishing the letter he’d just snatched from Hodrod’s grasp. 

Enkrig sighed.

“ _Harry_ won’t be doing anything he doesn’t want to do, Ragnok,” Nagnik hissed, deceptively calm.

“That’s right,” Bodrig added, folding his arms and glaring. “Harry gets to make this decision, and none of us will be coercing him in any way. Or don’t you remember what Enkrig said, and all of us have been trying to get through your thick skull all these years?”

Meanwhile, Hodrod looked on with approval as Prakak sidled over to where Harry was sitting. Hodrod was just close enough to hear her ask quietly, “Well, Harry? What _do_ you want to do?”

Harry smiled at her and tipped his head in that way that had always reminded Hodrod of a snake preparing to strike (he was so proud of his son) before rising from his seat and coughing loudly. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said politely, “I’ve already decided, without any coercion, that I’ll be accepting Hogwarts’ invitation.”

Bodrig frowned. “Are you quite sure, Harry?”

“I will respect whatever you have decided, Harry,” Enkrig interjected, “But you ought to know: it will not be an easy path, entering the Wizarding World. You will never be able to slip under the radar; you will be both loved and bitterly envied for being the so-called ‘Boy Who Lived,’ and there will be many who will fear or despise your upbringing among goblins. And, if you do choose to take action against any injustices you find there, it will only make things more difficult for yourself and many others. Think carefully before making your choice.”

Harry bowed slightly to their leader, replying, “Thank you for your words of advice, Enkrig, and I will certainly take them into consideration, but,” he turned to Bodrig, “I am entirely sure of my choice.”

“Perhaps it would make Bodrig feel better if he heard your rationale for it,” Prakak suggested, sinking down in one fluid motion into the chair Harry had just vacated. Harry nodded at her.

“To hide from the Wizarding World would, I think, be the worst sort of cowardice,” he began. “After all, it’s not just that they’re a part of my heritage—I’m a hero to them, and I’ll have an automatic level of status and correspondent political sway. That, combined with the fact that I probably know more than most well-educated adult wizards about their history and the inequity of their society, means I think I have a responsibility to them. More importantly, I have a responsibility to _you_ —not because you’ve asked anything of me, but precisely because you haven’t. I owe it to the goblins to fight the Wizard laws, both because it’s basic justice and because—well, you raised me as one of your own. Isn’t it fitting that I act like one of you, too?”

He paused, looking around at the Brotherhood, whose faces ranged from pleased-but-concerned (Bodrig) to cat-got-the-cream (Ragnok). Hodrod gave his son a smirk when they made eye contact, and Harry relaxed slightly.

“Besides,” the boy added, grinning suddenly—Nagnik’s grin, beneath eyes as green as Hodrod’s own. Never did a human look more like a goblin’s child. “I think the wizards could use a bit of excitement, don’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! A big thank you to everyone who commented, kudos-ed, and bookmarked the last couple chapters! You are all gems!


	4. New Friends

Harry, of course, knew better than to make direct eye contact with strangers—at present, he saw no need to be rude—but he was finding it difficult not to stare. Almost everyone on the bus with him had hair (some of them even had it on their _faces_ , which Harry knew was called a “beard,” but it looked bizarre) and they were so _tall!_

He’d only just said goodbye to his family a few hours ago, standing at the edge of the cave that led into Gringotts and promising not to let them down, and already he was half-wishing he’d never decided to leave, forget the consequences.

“No matter what you do, Harry, we’ll always be proud of you,” Prakak had told him, and when Ragnok added, “Just make sure you get the wizards to confront how systemically flawed their society has become,” Bodrig had smacked the goblin upside the head and Enkrig sent him a calm look that clearly promised future evisceration.

Hodrod had slung an arm across Harry’s shoulders and said, “Remember, you can always come home. No matter what happens and no matter when—if you can’t get away, send one of Hogwarts’ elf-slaves with a message, and we’ll come get you.” His eyes had taken on that unsettling gleam. “The wizards can just try and stop us.”

Harry knew better than to doubt Hodrod’s word, but he also knew what had happened with the wizards when they received Harry’s response to the (apparently automated) Hogwarts invitation letter. 

He hadn’t been there, because no one wanted to chance the wizards snatching him before even attempting negotiations, but he knew how the discussion had gone when Albus Dumbledore and Cornelius Fudge arrived at Gringotts with an army of aurors. Hodrod believed in going into things with the air of a berserker, but with both eyes open, so Harry had gotten practically a word-by-word account of the meeting; what it had boiled down to, though, was accusations of kidnapping and political rebellion on the part of the wizards, and carefully precise legal manouevering by the goblins. 

Eventually, it had been agreed that Harry would attend Hogwarts and return home at the end of the year if he so wished, and if there was no concrete evidence of mistreatment by the goblins. Harry was under no illusions, though, that he wasn’t a misstep away from sparking an all-out Wizard-Goblin war. He couldn’t go home—not yet.

So Harry lifted his chin and set his shoulders as the bus rolled to a stop outside King’s Cross Station. He could deal with being away from home, and he could adapt to human society. He would make his family proud, and (his eyes took on a Hodrod-like sheen) he would make the wizards regret ever trying to claim him as theirs.

\+ + +

“Pardon me, is this seat free?”

Harry blinked up from his extremely uninteresting potions textbook to see a young wizard standing nervously in the doorway of his train compartment. 

He sighed inwardly. He’d arrived early in an effort to minimize recognition as “The Boy Who Lived With Goblins” or whatever they were calling him, but he suspected the majority of the train still knew who and where he was. Harry was quite certain there were plenty of other compartments left to choose from, and he figured the wizard only wanted to sit with him because he was “ _the_ Harry Potter,” but he supposed he couldn’t avoid recognition no matter what if he was going to attend Hogwarts. It was why he hadn’t bothered to wear a glamour for the trip.

Resigned, he gestured for the wizard to come in. Breaking into a relieved grin, she slid into the seat across from him and exclaimed, “Oh, thank goodness! I don’t mean to impose, and I know there’s an empty compartment just down the way so I’m sure you’re terribly annoyed at the intrusion, but I saw you’re also wearing your school robes and I just—” she blushed suddenly. “I’m sorry, of course, you’re reading. I’ll just be quiet, then.”

Raising his eyebrows, Harry studied her surreptitiously as she pulled out a book of her own. The wizard— _no, witch,_ Harry corrected himself, remembering that Western magic-users had begun distinguishing between male and female wizards around the time of the heavily gendered Medieval “witch-burnings”—the _witch_ had dark skin and intensely bushy brown hair, with ramrod-straight posture and a very serious expression. Harry decided he liked her.

“I was rather surprised to find all the other students wearing casual clothes,” Harry offered, gazing politely at her forehead. “I was under the impression that, given the isolationist tone of Wizarding society, magicals would prefer to distinguish themselves as much as possible from their counterparts.”

The witch seemed a bit shocked to be spoken to, but nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, exactly! I didn’t want to seem unprepared for the Wizarding World, you know, so I meant to dress the part, but now I feel more out of place than ever. I wish they’d given us some more detailed instructions about the trip into Hogwarts, it was pure luck I figured out how to get on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at all. Are you a Muggle-born, too, then?”

Harry frowned. “I prefer the term first-generation magic-user,” he informed her, “and no.” 

She blinked. “But then—” 

“My name’s Harry Potter, what’s yours?” he interrupted, sticking his hand out. He reflected that if she was new to the Wizarding World, it was entirely possible she’d never heard of him and they could leave it at that, but—

She gaped, eyes flicking up to his hairline. He sighed deeply. “ _You’re_ Harry Potter?” she squeaked. “But you vanished! You’re in three separate introductory history books, and they all say you vanquished He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and then disappeared from your relatives’ home less than twenty-four hours later! They assumed you’d been killed by vengeful Death Eaters!”

“Is that what they’ve been saying,” Harry mused. “No, the goblins found me abandoned outside my aunt’s home, and according to the laws of _Grbpelldikuun,_ they were obligated to take me in as a foundling and raise me as their own.” He was careful to establish the legality of his adoptive family. No sense encouraging the wizards’ foolish ideas.

She stared. “ _Really?_ ” She shook herself then, noticing his hand hovering above the table—Harry knew shaking hands was significant to Western humans, and he didn’t want to take back his offer of friendship yet, so he’d kept it extended—and flushed bright red, grabbing it. “Hermione Granger,” she stammered, then burst out, “Is _that_ what your accent is, I’ve been trying to place it, not that it’s obvious, you can barely hear it at all, really, but if it’s Gobbledegook that explains why I couldn’t recognize it, and I hope I’m not offending you, it’s just, I thought you were dead!”

Harry was offended on a number of levels. For one thing, after all the sessions with Ragnok, he’d _better_ not have an obvious accent. “It’s _‘Grbpelldikuuk,’_ actually, ‘Gobbledegook’ is an Anglo-Saxon mispronunciation that’s been perpetuated largely due to pervasive speciesism,” he corrected. “And most of the Wizarding World is now aware I’m _not_ dead, although the more time I spend out here, the more I'm beginning to wish they still thought I was.”

Hermione’s face had taken on a thoughtful look, though. “Pervasive speciesism, really? I didn’t realize—but now that I think about it, most of the Wizarding books I’ve read have a very slanted way of telling things, don’t they?” Her eyes narrowed. “Not to mention the way they talk about Muggles, I was really offended by some parts of Hogwarts: A History.”

Harry leaned back. So there were some intelligent wizards, after all. “You’re certainly right there,” he agreed. “Actually, the term ‘Muggle’ is itself really quite pejorative, in spite of how widely used it is. My family has always preferred ‘amagical human,’ since it doesn’t reduce a person to their lack of magical status, and—unlike ‘Muggle’—isn’t derived from a word meaning ‘gullible.’”

Hermione was leaning forward, nodding furiously and looking rather like she wanted to be taking notes. “Exactly! And I couldn’t believe there was no other word for, for ‘amagical humans’ born to Wizarding families than _‘squib.’_ It’s essentially calling someone worthless just because they don’t possess a particular skillset!”

“And don’t get me started on the _Obliviate_ curse,” Harry added, building up steam. “It’s baffling to me that wizards prohibit _Imperio_ because it violates a person’s will, but have no compunction about removing a person’s memory without their consent or notification. It’s outrageous.”

Hermione was starting to get a militant gleam in her eye when the door burst open. The train had pulled out of the station some time ago, so Harry was startled at the intrusion, but Hermione leapt to her feet without hesitating to steady the round-faced boy who’d stumbled in. 

He thanked her profusely, but hesitated when Hermione invited him to sit down next to her. “Actually, I,” he started, “I’m looking for Trevor. My toad, that is, I’ve lost him,” and now he looked a bit like he was going to cry. 

Harry edged away along his seat. He hated when people cried. He never knew what to do with them and their snotty, messy _feelings_ , and he secretly thought it was tasteless to have all those emotions on display. Hermione shot him a glare. 

Given that she’d just joined the Wizarding World a few months ago and doubtless had minimal experience interacting with goblins, she really shouldn’t be able to look that much like Enkrig.

“We’ll help you find Trevor, won’t we, Harry?” she soothed the boy. Harry nodded reluctantly, giving a bright, very fake smile when the boy looked at him.

“Oh, _thank_ you,” the wizard said earnestly. “My name’s Neville, by the way, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Hermione introduced herself, and then dragged Harry by the wrist out into the corridor. “Now, where did you see Trevor last?” 

Neville looked uncertain. “I know he was with me when I got on the train…”

Harry resisted the urge to sigh again, but allowed himself to cast Ragnok’s favourite finding spell. He didn’t feel like going around to every compartment in the train. “Trevor’s this way,” Harry announced, not waiting for them to follow before setting off.

He scooped the toad out from behind a pile of luggage in an otherwise-empty train car, turning to see Hermione standing back with wide eyes as Neville took his pet from Harry’s hands, crying blissfully, “Trevor!”

“Was that,” the witch started, then shook her head. “Was that wandless magic, Harry?”

Harry shrugged. “I suppose. I didn’t use a wand, anyways.”

Hermione ran her hands through her hair. It didn’t make any more difference to its neatness than it did for him, Harry noted, though that might just have been because they both had extremely uncooperative hair types. “That’s extremely advanced, though, plenty of fully trained wizards have trouble with wandless spells. And to cast it _silently_...! How did you _do_ that?”

“Huh,” Harry responded, faintly surprised. “Maybe that was why I had so much trouble keeping up with my classmates. I figured it was because I aged half as quickly as the goblin children, but if wizards just naturally have weaker magic, that would explain a lot.”

Hermione, if it was possible, looked even more flabbergasted. Harry decided he didn’t really want to deal with that, so he walked swiftly past her, calling over his shoulder, “Hey, Neville, want to sit with us, then?”

Once they were all seated back in their compartment, Hermione still looked like she’d swallowed a fish. Harry cast about for something to distract her. “So, Neville, are you the first one in your family to attend Hogwarts?”

Neville brightened. “Well, I’m an only child, but my family are all wizards. They thought I might be a Squib for the longest time, because I didn’t show any signs of having magic, you see. But one day my Great Uncle Algie came round for dinner, and he was hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles trying to trigger my magic to manifest when my Great Auntie Enid offered him a meringue and he accidentally let go. But I bounced—all the way down the garden and into the road. They were all really pleased, Gran was crying, she was so happy, and when my Hogwarts letter came, Great Uncle Algie was so pleased he bought me Trevor.” 

Neville looked between Hermione and Harry, his smile fading as he took in their twin murderous expressions. Hermione made an effort to school her features when she saw Neville begin to droop, but Harry didn’t bother. “That’s unacceptable,” he snarled, and launched into a tirade taken straight from one of Ragnok’s classes about Wizarding treatment of amagical [sports.](/)

Hermione was chiming in furiously, and Neville was looking shell-shocked but tentatively pleased, when the compartment door slid open yet again. Harry grimaced. He should’ve picked a spot on the train with a less central location. 

Three boys sauntered in without so much as a by-your-leave. One was small and goblin-pale, with white-blonde hair combed neatly across his forehead, and the other two were large, marginally less pale, and quite stubbly. Harry was beginning to think it was a shame to cut your hair so short when you could grow it. He found he liked the way it looked on human heads, though he still wasn't sure about beards.

“Is it true?” the small one said. “They’re saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment. So it’s you, is it?”

Harry scowled, and to his surprise, Neville piped up, “Yes, that’s me. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.”

Harry and Hermione whipped around in unison to stare at him. Neville reddened, glancing anxiously at Harry like he thought he might have misstepped, but Harry didn’t mind. The less attention he got, the happier he was. He made eye contact with Neville, showing his trust, and ever so slightly smirked. 

Neville beamed, turning back to the boys. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

The goblin-boy stuck out his hand and Neville shook it. “I’m Malfoy, Draco Malfoy. This is Crabbe and that’s Goyle,” he added carelessly, gesturing at the wizards behind him. “I wanted to invite you to join us for the rest of the train ride, Potter, it can’t be pleasant to sit with this rabble.”

Harry carefully did not snicker, making himself as unobtrusive as possible so they wouldn’t notice him and his scar, which was only ever half-hidden behind his fringe. Neville cleared his throat.

“Well, I mean, much as I appreciate the offer, I’m rather enjoying my current company, actually,” he said boldly. 

Crabbe gaped, and Draco raked his gaze across Harry and Hermione scornfully. “Them? Really? You ought to know, some wizarding families are much better than others, and you don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”

“Oh, _please_ tell me you aren’t talking about that blood purity nonsense,” Hermione blurted. She’d been looking on with silent disapproval at their deception, but now she was evidently furious. “Because if you are, I think it’s safe to say Harry isn’t interested in your idiotic propaganda.”

Draco sneered at her, but Neville added hurriedly, “Yes, what she said, please leave now,” and propelled the three boys out the door. He slammed it shut and slumped against it, paling.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to lose my temper,” Hermione babbled immediately, “and I hope it’s all right that I spoke for you, Harry, it was just in the middle of our conversation about magical-amagical liasons to hear someone imply they bought into all that nonsense about _bloodlines_ —”

“It’s fine, Hermione, I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Harry assured her. 

Hermione smiled at him before turning on the other wizard. “Neville! What were you thinking? Why would you tell them you were Harry Potter when Harry was sitting _right there?”_

Neville shrank in on himself, still leaning against the door. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve, it’s just—Harry never introduced himself to me. Well, of course, he _did_ , but not as Harry _Potter_. So I just figured he would rather not get too much attention for it.”

“He’s right,” Harry told Hermione with his best imitation of Nagnik’s quelling look. “I really appreciated it. That was brilliant, Neville,” he said to the boy. Turning back to Hermione, he added, “And don’t tell me those boys didn’t deserve to be tricked like that, not after what they said.” Hermione closed her mouth with a snap. 

“Fine,” she huffed, “but don’t blame me when they have it out for the both of you, once they figure out the truth.”

Neville came back over to sit down. “I think they’ll have it out for all three of us, since you told them off so well,” he observed. Harry tilted his head in acknowledgement.

Hermione scowled, then threw her shoulders back. “Well, you don’t get anything worthwhile done without making a few enemies,” she said defiantly, and Harry grinned.

This was going to be a good year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to get to the Sorting with this entry, but it ended up a lot longer than I (probably foolishly) had anticipated. So, we're back to "?" for the number of chapters while I furiously revise my estimates and question my life decisions, and we're getting extra time looking at the characters! I hope you all like Harry and Hermione's newly-spawned Terrifying Bromance of World-Changing Hellions, because it only gets wilder from here :)  
> Also, yes, I vent a lot of my issues with canon!world's unaddressed discrimination in this chapter. Honestly, that's what most of this fanfiction is going to be, but hopefully it'll be relatively subtle, rather than things I may or may not have ranted about word-for-word in the past.  
> Let me know what you think!


	5. Wizards are Odd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry couldn’t help but wonder if there was some genetic predisposition among wizards that made them all just a little unhinged. It would at least explain the Hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm back! Sorry for the late update, school is Death at present. Postings will probably continue to be spotty for the next week or so, but I'll try and make it up to you once exams are done!

The train lurched to a stop outside a tiny, dark station platform. Harry, Hermione and Neville made their way through the crush of students, Harry grabbing Trevor when the toad tried to wriggle away again. The sun had set since they’d set out, and the three huddled together in the chilly night air. 

“Firs’ years!” a voice boomed from the edge of the crowd. “Firs’ years over here!”

Harry looked over to see an enormous man standing head and shoulders above the tallest students, and—from what Harry could tell—composed entirely of brown hair and a nose. He was obviously part-giant, and he beamed affably at the throng. “C’mon, follow me—any more firs’ years? Mind yer step, now! Firs’ years follow me!”

They followed him as he led a much smaller group of children down a steep trail that wound through thick, dark trees. Everyone was mostly silent, and even Neville and Hermione were pale, Hermione gnawing her lip as if to hold back her typical flood of words. 

Harry supposed that most of the young wizard-spawn were worried about making a good impression, but frankly, Harry felt he had bigger fish to fry. As long as he didn’t give the wizards an excuse to hold him captive for the summer, he didn’t care too much what they thought of him. Besides, it was past time to start implementing some changes among the wizards, and as Hermione had pointed out, you couldn’t do that without making some enemies.

“Ye’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” the part-giant called over his shoulder, “jus’ round this bend here.”

The group erupted into gasps and exclamations as the path curved and gave way to the shore of a round black lake, which shimmered with the reflection of lights from a castle situated high on the mountainside across the water. 

“No more’n four to a boat!” shouted the hair-man, and Harry snapped his eyes from the breathtaking view to see about fifteen coracles pulled up on the edge of the lake. He tugged Hermione and Neville over to the nearest one, taking a seat at the prow. 

They’d just gotten settled—Neville accidentally stuck his foot in the water, but mumbled that since he hadn’t capsized the boat, it counted as a win for him—when another boy stumbled in beside them, making the vessel rock wildly.

“Sorry,” the boy muttered, face darkening in the dim light as water sloshed over the rims of the boat. “Is it all right if I sit here?”

Harry shrugged, but Hermione sniffed. “Well, I suppose now that you’ve brought in half the lake with you, you might as well,” she snapped. The boy hunched his shoulders and opened his mouth to retort, but a shout from further down the shore cut him off.

“Everyone in?” boomed Giant-Hair. “Right then—FORWARD!”

All the boats immediately slid forward, smoothly pushing off and cutting into the glassy waters of the lake. They must have been pre-charmed to respond to basic commands, Harry mused.

“Well, that’s that then,” Neville said, in a conciliatory tone. Hermione and the new boy were still glaring at each other. 

“Do you suppose they’ll feed us as soon as we arrive, or will we have to prove our worthiness first?” Harry asked, partly to diffuse the tension and partly because he was curious about the process of admission. The goblins were not privy to knowledge about Hogwarts’ internal system, but he assumed they had some equivalent of amagical entrance exams, perhaps something similar to the survival trials Goblin students had to take to access higher education.

“Prove our worthiness?” Neville squeaked. 

“Well, how else do you suppose they’ll Sort us?” the new boy retorted, looking pale. “I hear it’s really gruelling, they make you do spells, maybe there’ll even be a troll—”

“‘Sort’?” Harry interrupted, intrigued. 

“Oh, of course, the goblins wouldn’t have known, but it’s rather significant to wizards,” Hermione told him, adopting the tone of a lecturer. “At Hogwarts there are four Houses, called Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin. I didn’t think there was a distinction between skill levels, though,” she broke off fretfully, “oh, I should have been preparing, I’m so stupid—let’s see, there’s _alohomora, petrificus totalus, incendio,_ and of course switching spells, I wonder which ones I’ll need—” 

“Oi, do you mind _shutting up_?” the new boy burst out. “I’m nervous enough without you prattling on. We get it, you’re smart. I hope whatever House I’m in, it’s not with _you,_ ” he added cuttingly.

Hermione looked genuinely hurt, but before anyone could respond, a warning call came from the front of the procession, and they sailed into a low cave that led straight into the mountainside, apparently right beneath the castle they’d seen. An underwater current seemed to speed them along, and in no time they’d reached a kind of underground harbour. 

“Right, everyone out!” called Giant-Hair. “Up this way!”

In the light of Giant-Hair’s lantern, Harry could see the new boy was a skinny, freckled redhead, who looked vaguely apologetic but not nearly enough to keep Harry from sending him a glare. 

“Look, I didn’t—” Freckles began, but Hermione simply sniffed and swept past him into the rocky corridor Giant-Hair was leading the students down. Freckles scowled, and Harry shrugged at him. 

“What can I say? Don’t cross Hermione,” he told him cheerfully, before following Hermione down the path.

“Do you think we’ll really have to prove ourselves?” Neville muttered anxiously beside him as they stepped out onto a damp lawn right next to the wall of the castle. 

“I don’t know. In most secondary institutions, there’s some kind of vetting process, but I’m not sure what that would look like here,” Harry replied truthfully. 

Neville looked like he might decide to stay outside after all, at that, so Harry grabbed his wrist and tugged him up the wide stone steps after the rest of the first years. 

“Everyone here?” Giant-Hair checked, before pounding a fist against the huge oak doors. 

They swung open to reveal a tall, black-haired wizard— _witch_ —with horn-rimmed glasses and emerald-green robes, who looked nearly as stern as Enkrig did whenever Ragnok was being particularly obtuse. Despite himself, Harry was intimidated.

“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” Giant-Hair gestured at the students. 

“Thank you, Hagrid,” the witch replied. “I will take them from here.”

Knowing the part-giant’s name did not make him any less partial to the moniker “Giant-Hair,” Harry reflected as McGonagall led them across an enormous entrance hall, which was tinted orange with the firelight from the wall torches, and into a small antechamber beside what was obviously the main dining hall. 

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” she said. “The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.”

“Excuse me, Professor,” Harry interrupted, raising his hand. Hermione looked scandalised. “How exactly are we going to be Sorted, and based on what criteria?”

McGonagall looked at him with raised brows. “The four founders of Hogwarts each desired that the students in their House possess certain characteristics. In Gryffindor, for instance, students value courage and chivalry, while Hufflepuffs are more inclined to kindness and hard work; Ravenclaws are studious, and Slytherins are cunning. As to _how_ you will be Sorted, I daresay you’ll all find out momentarily.” 

Harry frowned. “So,” he said slowly, “You’re telling me that, at the age of eleven, children are segregated according to arbitrary personality traits alleged to define them for the rest of their schooling?”

He’d known Wizarding society was a mess, but Harry could see he really had his work cut out for him. “Does no one see how self-fulfilling a system that is? Not to mention how potentially destructive to a child’s developing psyche.”

McGonagall blinked. “Be that as it may, young man, it is the way Hogwarts is organized,” she pointed out after a moment. “You can hardly expect that to change simply because you dislike it.”

A phalanx of ghosts swooped through the far wall just then, startling a few students into screaming and distracting McGonagall so that—perhaps fortunately—she didn’t notice the predatory grin creeping across Harry’s face. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it,” Hermione hissed into his ear, but he ignored her. Neville cast him a nervous glance, and he ignored that, too. 

“That time already?” McGonagall clucked. “Very well then, students,” she raised her voice, “Move along now, the Sorting Ceremony’s about to start.”

“Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!” one ghost called, a round, tonsured man with a wide grin. “My old house, you know!”

McGonagall organized them in a line and led them back out across the entrance hall and through the pair of doors Harry had noticed earlier. Sure enough, they opened into a dining room of massive proportions. 

Four long tables stretched lengthways along the hall, each decorated in different colours. Although the ceiling seemed to open into the glittering black night sky (“It’s bewitched,” Hermione whispered excitedly from behind him, “I read about it in _Hogwarts: A History_ ”), the room itself was lit with a faintly golden glow—partly from the unnaturally bright light emanating from the floating candles, and partly reflected off the ostentatious dinnerware, which seemed to be made of actual gold. Harry hoped they were just enchanted to look that way, because otherwise it seemed like a terrible waste of capital.

The first-years followed McGonagall obediently all the way up to a fifth table, perpendicular to the others, where the teachers were seated. Harry watched with interest as she pulled a worn wizard’s hat apparently out of her sleeve and placed it atop a low stool. 

There was a moment of anxious silence, and then the hat began to wriggle. A mouth opened up at its brim, and— _Ah,_ Harry thought; of course the wizards would put a sentient hat in charge of sifting new students. The absurdity of the entire process could allow for nothing else.

He paid little attention to the song that followed, aside from patting Neville reassuringly when the boy clutched at his arm, pale with relief, and whispered, “No trolls!” Harry was taken by surprise when the entire hall burst into applause as soon as the Hat finished, but he smirked as the Hat made a bow to each of the four tables before stilling. At least it had character.

McGonagall, now holding a sheet of parchment, stepped forward again and announced, “When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted. Abbott, Hannah!”

“Do we have to stand here the whole time?” Harry muttered to Hermione, but before she could answer, the Hat was shouting, “HUFFLEPUFF!”

“What?” Harry whisper-shouted. “Less than ten seconds and her entire school experience and all its questionable social repercussions has been decided for her?” Hermione shushed him. 

“Well, at least we won’t be standing around for long,” Harry grumbled, subsiding temporarily as “Bones, Susan” went to sit beside Hannah with the Hufflepuffs.

In no time, “Granger, Hermione!” was called, and she cast them a nervous look as she stepped forward. Neville shot her a thumbs-up.

The Hat sat on Hermione’s head for nearly a full minute before finally calling out “GRYFFINDOR!” 

Neville looked surprised, whispering, “I thought she’d be Ravenclaw for sure,” but he and Harry both turned to stare daggers at Freckles when he groaned loudly. As the line had shortened, the redhead had ended up loitering next to Neville, and Harry was not pleased.

Freckles shrugged defensively at their looks. “My whole family’s in Gryffindor, I’m not thrilled to be sharing a House with her,” he hissed. “So what?”

Harry glared at the (apparently nonexistent) ceiling in exasperation as the next few students were hastily categorized. “See, this attitude is exactly what I’m talking about,” he said to no one in particular.

“Longbottom, Neville!” McGonagall called. Harry grudgingly whispered “good luck” as the other boy stepped nervously forward. However idiotic the system was, there was no need to make Neville feel guilty about it.

 _“Longbottom?”_ Draco’s incredulous shout carried in the quiet hall. “Then who—?” 

He cut himself off, and Harry glanced over to see him red-faced and glaring, looking equal parts embarrassed and outraged. Neville was grinning, though, as the Hat slipped over his eyes, and suddenly Harry was feeling intensely self-satisfied.

The Hat took even longer deciding Neville’s future than it did for Hermione, and Harry congratulated himself on making moderately well-rounded friends. Finally, though: “GRYFFINDOR!” shouted the Hat, and Neville went to sit next to Hermione, who immediately flung her arms around him.

Of course, there had to be a downside to having friends with unique personalities, but really, did they _have_ to be so emotionally demonstrative? First the crying, now the hugging; Harry was exhausted just looking at them.

“Malfoy, Draco” was summoned next, still looking extremely disgruntled. The Hat only rested on his head for a second before consigning him to “SLYTHERIN!”

Roger Malone was called up next, followed quickly by Nott and a slew of P-names, but Harry was distracted by the death glare Draco was shooting him.

He was actually quite impressed with how quickly the boy had figured it out. It would have taken most of the goblin children he knew a few minutes, at the very least, to conclude that the unobtrusive other child in the train compartment had been the _real_ Harry Potter, and Harry could only assume human children were typically less intelligent than goblins, given his own track record and the fact that the upcoming Wizarding generation was currently being controlled by a singing Hat. On the whole, he was quite impressed with Draco’s deductive skills.

He might have been even more impressed if he wasn’t fairly sure the boy was attempting to distance-murder him with his stare. Draco was a wizard, too, so it wasn’t inconceivable that he’d succeed. Just in case, Harry cast a subtle fire-retardant charm on himself.

“Potter, Harry!”

Harry jerked out of his reverie and stepped forward. A rush of whispers swept across the hall—“Potter, did she say? _The_ Harry Potter?”—but he ignored them, plopping the Hat carelessly on his head.

“Hmm,” said a small voice in his ear. “Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, my goodness, yes—and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting… So where shall I put you?”

 _I don’t suppose you could just leave me unSorted?_ Harry inquired. _This system is frankly appalling, and I don’t intend to participate, so if it’s all the same to you…_

The Hat gave a wheezy chuckle in his ear. Harry winced. Could magical Hats carry disease? It certainly didn’t sound healthy. “Nice try. You’ve got gumption, no question about it, and you’d do well in Gryffindor, but with that clever mind and, hm, determination to succeed, yes, I’d say it had better be—SLYTHERIN!” 

Harry sighed as the hall erupted into tentative applause, though most people still seemed more bewildered than anything. “D’you think it’s the _same_ Harry Potter?” one Ravenclaw whispered loudly, to general glares and shushing from her neighbours. 

Draco was still glaring, but that was fine by Harry; he had no intention of going anywhere near the Slytherin table that night, anyway. He slid off the stool and replaced the Hat atop it, and then shuffled quietly back to where he’d been standing earlier. 

Despite the fact that “Rivers, Oliver” was currently being sorted into Hufflepuff, all eyes in the room were glued to Harry. He adjusted his glasses and clapped loudly, as no one else seemed inclined to do so for poor Oliver. Then again, the boy didn’t seem to mind too much—he tripped over a table leg as he moved off because he, too, was staring too hard to watch where he was going.

Freckles nudged him uncertainly with a pointy elbow while the Hat mulled over “Roper, Sophie’s” fate. “Hey,” he whispered. “You—er, you _do_ know you’re supposed to go sit with the Slytherins now, right?”

Harry gave him a frosty look. “I’m protesting,” he said shortly.

“Right,” Freckles replied, looking confused but too intimidated to inquire further. Harry nodded to himself. By and large, that was his favourite expression to see on people trying to interact with him.

He stood, arms folded, as the last few students were Sorted. “Weasley, Ron” turned out to be Freckles’ real name, and he was, as expected, quickly placed in Gryffindor. Harry pitied Hermione and Neville, who were still periodically shooting him exasperated glances. He chose to assume it was because they would have to deal with Freckles on a regular basis, and not because he was protesting Hogwarts’ divisive system, so he sent them commiserating looks in response. Hermione rolled her eyes and whispered something to Neville, who laughed out loud.

After a good five minutes of thought, “Zabini, Blaise” was finally declared a Slytherin, and McGonagall crisply rolled up her parchment and slid it, together with the Hat, up her suspiciously un-bulging sleeve. She raised her eyebrows at Harry, but said nothing. Harry smirked at her.

An extremely old man with a sweeping white beard rose from his place in the middle of the teacher’s table as McGonagall sat down next to him. He cleared his throat and began quietly, “Mr. Potter, may I ask—” 

McGonagall snapped up and hissed something in his ear. “Oh, really?” White Beard murmured. “Well, I do think he should have the chance to explain for himself, if he wishes—” The witch glared, and White Beard sighed. “But perhaps not just at present.”

In a much louder voice, the old wizard—Harry assumed it was the infamous Dumbledore, who betrayed goblinkind and currently acted as Hogwarts’ overlord—continued, “Welcome, welcome, to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you,” he finished, sitting back down.

Harry blinked. Perhaps the reason Dumbledore had abandoned their cause had been less “unmitigated malice,” as Ragnok put it, and more high-functioning lunacy. 

Then again, as everyone around him whooped and applauded earnestly, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was some genetic predisposition among wizards that made them all just a little unhinged. It would at least explain the Hat. Should he be worrying about his own mental stability?

Preoccupied, Harry didn’t notice Giant-Hair—Hagrid, he remembered—approaching until he was standing right beside him. He was holding a plate of food.

“Not sure why yer no’ sitting with yer housemates,” Hagrid started awkwardly, “but yeh might as well eat some dinner, eh, Harry?”

Harry eyed the food and decided it was probably fine to eat, although he still felt disgruntled about the golden cutlery. Also, he recalled suddenly, meals at Hogwarts were undoubtedly made using elf slave labour. Perhaps a hunger strike was in order.

Hagrid was looking more anxious by the second, though, and Harry realized that it might be best to take things one step at a time. He couldn’t change the House system and abolish slavery among the wizards all at once, and he would have much more success with the former if he avoided participating in House culture from the beginning.

He took the plate, smiling up at Giant-Hair. “Thank you, Hagrid,” he said politely. The hunger strike could wait for now.

Although perhaps it wouldn’t be too ambitious to begin raising awareness about parti-human rights...

Harry munched his meal, considering a plan of action for the year until Dumbledore stood up again. “Ahem—just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered.” Harry tuned him out, instead examining the rest of the teachers’ table while he spoke. 

A pale man in a purple turban stared fixedly at Dumbledore, and twitched every so often. Beside him, a man with lank black hair and a hooked nose was glancing every so often at Harry, looking perplexed; when he caught his eye, though, the man immediately scowled and looked away. Harry took note of a very short teacher who probably had some goblin heritage before Dumbledore caught his attention again.

“…third-floor corridor is out-of-bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.” That sounded interesting. Harry resolved to investigate the third-floor corridor as soon as possible.

“And now, bedtime! Off you trot,” Dumbledore beamed.

“Oy, Potter,” called a tall, burly boy from the Slytherin table. “Come on, we’re going to the dormitories now.”

Harry meandered over to the general vicinity of the Slytherins, since it was too loud to bother making a fuss now, but he cast a simple notice-me-not charm Nagnik had taught him and slipped away as soon as they exited the hall.

Glancing around, Harry spotted Hermione’s bushy hair on its way up a staircase and he hurried after her. She was, unsurprisingly, following the herd of newly-christened Gryffindors, and Harry tagged along with an increasing sense of bemusement as they crawled through doorways hidden behind tapestries and ascended winding stairs in single file, as there wasn’t enough room for two to walk abreast. 

Wizards were odd, Harry concluded, but he found the eccentric architecture more endearing than anything he’d come across so far. He patted the stone wall pressing in on his right and was surprised to feel a shock of magic respond. It almost felt… sentient?

He was jolted out of his thoughts as a stick hit his forehead. “Peeves! Show yourself!” bellowed a tall student with a badge on his chest, as more sticks apparently threw themselves at the crowd. The only response Badge got was the sound of a disembodied raspberry.

“Do you want me to go to the Bloody Baron?” Badge asked sternly. With a loud pop, a cackling little poltergeist appeared in midair, more sticks clutched in their hands. At the moment, they looked like a rotund man with a checkered jacket and a propeller hat, but Harry knew from _extensive_ research regarding sentient creatures and their legal status that poltergeists were semi-corporeal manifestations of chaos magic, and typically had little respect for gender norms (or rules in general). 

This one seemed fairly easily cowed, though, and sped off after minimal antagonism. Badge explained, “You’ll want to watch out for Peeves. The Bloody Baron’s the only one who can control him, he won’t even listen to us prefects.”

As the company came to a halt before an enormous picture of a woman in pink, Harry made a mental note to contact the poltergeist and ensure they were being well-treated by Hogwarts’ faculty and ghosts. 

“Password?” asked the painting. _“Caput Draconis,”_ said Badge. Harry made note of that, too. 

They stepped over the threshold into a garishly decorated room. Overstuffed chairs clustered around a roaring fire, above which was embossed a gold lion rampant. Everything seemed to be either crimson or gold, except for a set of tall windows, which looked black beyond the reflected glow of flames. Heavy curtains hung on either side of them, covering up most of the grey stone wall, and a thick red rug lay across much of the floor. On the whole, it looked very warm, cozy, lavish, and comfortable. 

Harry hated it. Did wizards have no taste?

But, while the other first-years stumbled, yawning, to their bedrooms, Harry sighed and made himself comfortable on one of the hideous couches. He had a point to make, and Yardley Platt himself wouldn’t keep Harry from making it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of odds and ends:
> 
> -Re: Harry thinking wizards are dumb based on "his own track record"--Harry is plenty smart. The premise of this fic is that the goblins raised him savvy, and even in canon I hardly think Harry is stupid (barring the Sirius-mirror-travesty). This observation taps into a headcanon I have (about my own universe, I know, so it'll probably come up in more detail later in the fic) where goblin children mature twice as quickly as humans, so Harry was quickly outgrown by his schoolmates and struggled to keep up. Hence, he doesn't have any close goblin friends his age, and also hence his homeschooling. Goblin children do have school; Harry just couldn't participate in it, because his brain aged slower.
> 
> -Re: Peeves. So, I didn't have any intention of making Peeves nonbinary, but then it kind of just...happened? And now the nebulous ideas I once had of an alliance between Harry and the poltergeist are becoming very concrete indeed. So, be prepared for Peeves to become a chaotic neutral major-supporting-character, even though I certainly was not! (Also just a heads up: this fic is gonna be heckin queer, even though that isn't the focus, because what is life without bi boys, strong trans women, and epic lesbians? Tragic and impoverished, that's what.)
> 
> -Also, all the random students listed here are actual students in Harry's year. Oliver Rivers' Hufflepuff status is the only thing I actually invented in this chapter, apart from things Harry himself does/causes because he's a lunatic goblin child. (Yardley Platt, for those who are interested, is a wizard on Chocolate Frog cards, chiefly remembered for being a serial goblin killer.)


	6. House Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Last night, for some unfathomable reason, you were Sorted into Slytherin,” Beak-nose purred. “I can only presume a mistake was made, or perhaps I am being punished for my sins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late, y'all! Graduating is more work than advertised. Also, anxiety-crashing _after_ graduating lasts longer than you'd think (at least, if you're a dingbat like me, who thinks "yeah, one week should do it" before GAD laughs in your face). So, for the next little bit, I'm gonna say this fic will update closer to once a month than once a week. But! The show must go on!

_“Harry?”_

Harry woke with a start, and scowled.

He’d taken ages to fall asleep last night; the couches in Gryffindor’s common room were wildly overstuffed, and Harry kept jerking awake from half-dreams of being suffocated by giant marshmallows. When he’d finally drifted off, the marshmallows had sprouted little pointed hats that chanted, “Slytherin! Slytherin!” at him in tinny, high-pitched voices. 

Next time he was sleeping on the floor, Harry decided.

“Harry, what are you _doing here?_ ” Hermione hissed, interrupting his internal monologue.

“I _was_ sleeping,” he grumbled in response. “What time is it?”

Hermione grabbed his arm as he tried to roll over and bury his face in the pillow. She tugged impatiently at him until he gave in and sat up to glare at her. “I _mean,”_ she clarified, “What are you doing _here?_ You really ought to be in the Slytherin dormitories, I don’t even know how you managed to get in to our common room.”

“Same as all the other first years,” Harry shrugged. “I followed Badge Boy through the portrait hole. It really wasn’t difficult.”

“That’s impossible,” Hermione said immediately. “I would’ve noticed you. There couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve first-years in our group, and you weren’t one of them, Harry!”

Harry patted her shoulder consolingly. “It’s all right, Hermione, of course you would have noticed me. You’re very observant, no one’s questioning that—”

“I didn’t think anyone was!” she interrupted, indignant.

“—But no one can be expected to see through a notice-me-not charm on their first try, and especially not when they don’t know what to look for,” he concluded.

“Those don’t exist,” Hermione said sceptically. “I mean, there are charms to encourage amagicals to look the other way, and of course there’s _confundus_ for confusion and Disillusionment Charms for camouflage and even invisibility cloaks, but the magical theory doesn’t allow for a person to just go unnoticed as desired. Bridget Wenlock established that all the way back in 1262, and everyone knows she was the one to establish the alchemical significance of the number seven, you can’t just discount her findings!”

Harry blinked. “Well, Nagnik taught me quite a simple notice-me-not when I was eight, so I’m not sure what to tell you.”

“Harry?” Neville’s surprised murmur cut off Hermione’s imminent rebuttal. Harry turned in his seat to see the other boy rubbing his eyes as he stumbled down one of the two staircases that arched out of the common room. “What are you doing here?”

Harry threw up his hands. “I give up.”

\+ + +

Despite his best efforts to get back to sleep, Hermione eventually managed to drag him up and get him and Neville to the dining hall.

Harry stopped short when he saw the tables. There were five Hufflepuffs and two Ravenclaws eating breakfast, and McGonagall and a cross-looking man sat at the teachers’ table, but otherwise the room was empty.

Harry swivelled to glare at his so-called ‘friend.’ “What _time_ is it, Hermione?”

“Right now it’s 6:02 a.m.,” Neville put in helpfully, displaying his digital watch for them both. “A gift from my gran, because I’m always late,” he added, but Harry was no longer listening.

“What—you— _both_ of you, why on earth are you awake at this ungodly hour? Why am _I_ awake? This is intolerable. I’m going to find a bed and stay there until it’s actually morning.”

“No, you’re not,” Hermione said crisply, sticking out a foot to trip him as he tried to shuffle backwards. Harry and Neville both paused to stare at her, and she blushed. “You have to explain how and why you were sleeping in Gryffindor tower, Harry. And besides, it’s our first day at a new school. Don’t you want to make sure you start with your best foot forward?”

“Which is exactly why I want to go back to bed,” Harry muttered grouchily, but submitted. Maybe he’d made a mistake befriending Hermione. Not even he dared disobey her when she had that look in her eye. Unfortunately, at this point, there was no backing out; if he tried, he’d make an enemy of her, and then he would certainly die.

“I just like to wake up early,” Neville interjected, glancing nervously between them. “I mean—doesn’t everything seem fresher when the sun’s just rising?”

Harry didn’t think anything seemed ‘fresh’ at 6:02 in the morning, or at any time when the sun was still in the east half of the sky, but he appreciated that Neville was trying to keep the peace. He dipped his head graciously, and Neville looked relieved.

“But I’m not explaining anything until I’ve had at least two cups of coffee,” he announced.

 _“Fine,”_ Hermione snapped. Putting a hand between each of her friends’ shoulder blades, she propelled them, stumbling, to Gryffindor table. “Sorry, Neville,” she added, when the friend in question tripped over a flagstone and nearly faceplanted. She helped him up solicitously before shoving Harry into a chair. 

Harry seized the nearest mug and filled it with coffee, drinking greedily. 

“Well?” demanded Hermione.

“Let him finish his coffee,” Neville admonished, shrinking a bit when Hermione turned her glare on him. Still, he went on bravely, “He said he’d explain everything after he’s had two cups. We did get him up well before his usual time, right, Harry? So we should at least give him a chance to wake up.”

Neville was a good friend, Harry decided.

A good friend whose eyes were growing progressively wider as they stared over Harry’s shoulder. A throat cleared from behind him. Harry was too tired to jump. Instead, he took an extra-long swig of coffee.

“Mr. Potter,” said a very cold voice. “I know you’re new to the Wizarding world, but surely even a boy raised by goblins can follow simple instructions.”

Harry turned slowly. He tipped his head back a little to look into the eyes of a rather sickly-looking man with lank black hair and a large, sharp nose. “Excuse me?” Harry inquired, with a long blink and a hint of a half-smile. 

The man was unfazed. He was the one who’d been sitting with McGonagall, and thus was presumably a professor, but his returning sneer was a bit too gleeful for Harry to be impressed. Proper teachers never treated their students with anything but the purest apathy; everyone knew that. 

“Last night, for some unfathomable reason, you were Sorted into Slytherin,” Beak-nose purred. “I can only presume a mistake was made, or perhaps I am being punished for my sins. Nevertheless, Potter, and despite what you may believe, you are not exempt from the rules of Hogwarts. You are to sit at the Slytherin table at mealtimes. I realize the ways of civilization are somewhat new to you, but surely even one as thick as yourself can grasp the simple concept: go,” he pointed to the silver-green table across the hall. “Sit. Stay.”

Harry maintained eye contact for a moment longer before abruptly turning back to the table and taking a greedy gulp of coffee. He reached out to grab a set of tongs beside the sausage plate and heap his own dish with steaming meat (a practice the goblins had always declared repulsive, but Harry never could get enough of cooked flesh. Given the amount of fried animal products that were sitting on the breakfast table, he figured he was right in his assumption that eating large quantities of meat was a human thing, and not a symptom of Harry’s depravity the way Hodrod had always delightedly insisted). 

“Potter!” the man snapped, before swiftly regaining his composure. “Very well, then; have it your way. Ten points from Gryffindor.”

“But, Professor!” Hermione protested. “You said yourself, Harry’s in _Slytherin_ —” 

“Apparently not,” Beaky interrupted coolly. “Mr. Potter has decided he wishes to be treated as a Gryffindor, so Gryffindor will suffer the consequences.” With that, he strode back to the teacher’s table.

Harry was still studiously chewing his sausages like he hadn’t a care in the world when Hermione turned her furious glare from Beaky’s back to Harry. He flinched. 

“Harry,” Hermione intoned. “Explain. Now.”

Harry cast an imploring glance at Neville—or rather, Neville’s hair, since that was just about all that could be seen of the other boy over the edge of the table.

“Don’t look at me,” Neville said, a bit muffled. “You’ve got the scariest teacher at Hogwarts _and_ Hermione angry, within five minutes at six in the morning. You’re on your own now, Harry.”

Harry sighed, then pushed his plate back enough to fold his hands in front of him. “First of all,” he began, “I’m not joining Gryffindor. It’s just that I refuse to tolerate this absurd system of segregation-by-personality, and thus will be dividing my time equally between all four House groups. I have Defense Against the Dark Arts with the Hufflepuffs this morning.”

Neville snorted as Hermione groaned. “What?” Harry asked suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Neville squeaked immediately, at the same time as Hermione started, “I’m not even surprised, Harry, honestly—” 

Harry stared at Neville until he capitulated. “Hermione was just saying last night that you’d be in trouble for the sake of justice within twenty-four hours,” he mumbled, slouching even further down in his chair. “It’s just—I was just—” 

“I’m offended,” Harry declared, turning back to Hermione. “How could you possibly think it would take me more than twelve?”

Neville sat up, looking relieved, as Hermione groaned again and dropped her head in her hands. She tugged despairingly at the roots of her brown curls before straightening abruptly.

“Right,” she said, eyes narrow, “And I’m not surprised, of course the first battle you pick is with the educational system, and I’m not even faulting you for it, Harry, but what I really want to know is: what on earth do you mean, you know a _simple notice-me-not charm_?”

Harry grinned. “Like I said, Nagnik taught me,” he shrugged faux-carelessly. “You know, since goblins are prohibited from using wands—” 

“Because wizards are a bunch of xenophobic, entitled powermongers—” Hermione muttered, half to herself, and Harry stopped for a moment to stare at her. He took it all back. Hermione was the best friend he could possibly have made.

“I hope you’ll seriously consider marrying me, when we’re old enough to make that sort of decision,” Harry told her. Neville made a strangled sound. 

“Anyways, because of that, goblins have come up with a lot of spells that specifically require wandless magic to perform them.” He watched Hermione’s eyes lit up. He could practically see her planning a list of books to research. “I can teach you, if you’d like,” he added.

Hermione threw down her napkin and stood.

“Coffee first,” Harry told her, and settled in for a good ten minutes of sipping his drink as Hermione babbled about magic and Neville listened intently. 

He was looking forward to the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what y'all think! Although, disclaimer: Harry/Hermione is not in the plans for this work, because while they _would_ make the most epic power couple, I'm also solidly behind their Best Bros For Life vibe. Don't worry though; there will be ships coming up! (On second thought, maybe do worry. All of these characters are dumpster fires re: romance. _Loveable_ dumpster fires, though...)


End file.
